Ivory and Ink
by pessimisticprose
Summary: When Grantaire was a small child, he enjoyed writing. He enjoyed the ink against the paper. Black on white. When he had first laid his eyes on a piano, he remembered thinking it was like parchment and ink. Ivory and ink. Maybe that was why Grantaire was attracted to Enjolras. They were opposites. Black and white. (ExR if you squint) One shot


**Ivory and Ink**

**TheWriterToChangeThemAll**

**ExR One-shot (If you squint!) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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Grantaire took another swig of his drink as he raised the green bottle over his head and whooped in delight. Other drunk men made a similar motion. Grantaire was their self-proclaimed leader. Leader of the drunkards! Huzzah! He would rule the world!

Grantaire jumped off of the table, sensing Enjolras' sharp eyes on him, "Grantaire! Stop this foolish nonsense and-"

"Absinth isn't foolish, Apollo! Come and drink with me!"

Enjolras tore the bottle from Grantaire's hands, "This can kill a man of lesser disposition."

"Why, Enjolras! Are you saying I have a strong character? What a clever notion!" Grantaire leaned down and placed a sloppy kiss on Enjolras' cheek. The horrified student pushed the alcoholic off of him and stalked off to find Combeferre or anyone of a more tolerable nature than Grantaire.

Grantaire swaggered over to the weathered piano sitting in the corner of the room. The students had pushed it aside during their revolutionary speeches, and he had mourned that the sweet instrument would now most likely need tuning.

He sat at the bench, cracking his fingers, "Get ready, boys!" he called. A few men raised their drinks in cheerful acceptance, whilst others rolled their eyes at Grantaire. He would make a mockery of the poor piano, of this they were certain. They almost sympathized with the inanimate object, considering it was now subject to Grantaire's grimy fingertips.

His fingers began grazing themselves against the yellowed keys, emitting an out-of-tune piece from the piano that a few of the men could recognize. It was Beethoven! Piano Sonata Number One in F minor! Grantaire's fingers moved expertly over the ivory keys, creating a melody one could only assume to be quick. (However, a true musician would know the tempo by the term of prestissimo.)

Shocked, several of the young students crowded around Grantaire. Never before had they heard such wonderful music in person, even if it was out-of-tune! To be quite honest, some of them had never expected Grantaire to be _worthy _of such a wonderful talent as this! He played like someone who knew what he was doing, but he was as drunk as a man could be!

He never looked up, his fingers grazed the keys, but Grantaire wasn't even looking at them. He was trying to remember why he wanted to learn an instrument such as piano in the first place. It suddenly came to him in a whirlwind of black and white. When Grantaire was a small child, he enjoyed writing. He enjoyed the ink against the paper. Black on white. When he had first laid his eyes on a piano, he remembered thinking it was like parchment and ink. Ivory and ink. So he had begged his father to purchase a simple upright piano.

His mind came back to reality as he felt his fingers jumping up and down on the keys rather quickly. The notes were very short. He knew them to be staccato. He played the movement of the sonata completely through; all five minutes of it. When he laid his hands back on his lap, there was a sudden cheer from the men around him. When had they accumulated to this number?

Jehan sat beside him on the piano bench, "I did not know you to be a man of the arts, Grantaire!"

"I draw."

"I mean _music_. That was glorious!"

Grantaire looked at his drunken disciples. He grinned halfheartedly, but they were so drunk they did not notice that he wasn't genuinely happy. He took another gulp of the absinth sitting beside him and stood. He let out a cry and they all copied.

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Later that night, Grantaire sat at the bar. Jehan had begged the man to play another piece, something more romantic, but Grantaire had refused. He saw Apollo himself slide into the seat beside his. He raised his glass in acknowledgement and tilted it to his lips. Enjolras drummed his fingers absent-mindedly against the counter. They say in a comfortable silence for a while, but eventually Enjolras was the first to speak.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, that was some exemplary music, winesack."

Grantaire shrugged, "It is not important to me."

"You could actually _make _something of yourself with it, though. You could become something more than-"

"A drunkard? Yes, I hear that a lot. Tell me, Enjolras, when was the last time you had to drown out the sounds of your mother screaming with alcohol? I would wager my _life _ it isn't a common occurrence, if it occurs at all. What about the incessant need to keep the nightmares away with deep sleep, and you find absinth to be the only cure? Every night? If so, we have more parallel lives than I thought."

"You're speaking nonsense, Grantaire."

"I am not, and you are the heartless one," Grantaire growled. He rose and hurled the bottle onto the floor. No one could really hear the commotion over their cheers, however. Grantaire walked away from Enjolras briskly. He could already feel the alcohol wearing off. He needed something stronger; something more _potent. _Grantaire stepped out into the cold night and away from Enjolras, only a coat to keep off the chill.

Someone's hand caught his elbow, "Grantaire, stop this foolishness now and go home. It is late and you're certain to have a headache in the morning."

"I cannot get drunk enough to experience the symptoms of death anymore," Grantaire sighed, "Leave me to my own."

"Not like this." Enjolras followed Grantaire down the street. "Where are you taking me?"

"I am going to the one place I belong - my home. For some reason, you are following me on my conquest. Pray, why is that?"

Enjolras' breaths were heavy. Grantaire knew the revolutionary had not overexerted himself. Enjolras was merely infuriated with him. The prospect made him want to grin like a schoolboy who had found that the girl he was infatuated with returned the feelings.

"Goodnight, Grantaire," Enjolras turned on heel and briskly walked away.

As Enjolras walked away, Grantaire got a funny idea in his head. Could it be that he was so attracted to the young man walking away from him now because of their differences? They were like a piano. Ivory and ink. However, Grantaire knew someone like Enjolras would never mix with his type of ink.

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**AN: Thanks for reading! I recently went to see a chorus concert (my friend was playing a piano piece) and an accompanist there looked like George Blagden from where I was sitting! However, he sadly looks nothing like him whilst up close. So, I was inspired with Piano Playing Grantaire! Haha**

**Thanks for reading! All feedback is appreciated!**


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